Ancient Manuscripts of Love
Two ladies, two wineglasses, two eyes gazing at the past, two women, two secrets; I will not tell you more for two mean too much to me; tonight, tomorrow, in two hours, in two days, in two years, or even in two centuries, I will forget, if I can forget, and let, and walk away.
In my dreams, I saw her walking with strangers, and whispering to some guests words I could not hear, words I wish I could hear, words different from all words for they were coming out and dying on her lips, sweet lips, tender lips that remind me of the sweet, tender years of youth, years of madness and liberty. With age, they say we become wiser, a bit more intricate, and trickier; we become; we turn out to be, and all is but a story of becoming, a transformation towards the best maybe, towards the worst for sure. With age, we learn, and feel eager to learn and find out; and with age, we know that we do not know, and that we need to know, and that we know to find out that we do not know. With age, we comprehend that life is but a game, and we understand the “open-endedness”, the “no-story”, the “no-history”; with age, we become like an old tree, an aging olive tree standing amidst the natural and the artificial, longing for the sweet, furious wind, the wind that bring the new and clears the dust.
In my dreams, I saw her, a wineglass in a hand, a cigarette in the other; she was walking and treading on my desires and fantasies, puffing me with smoke, releasing herself from my demons, and sending demons to dwell in me. In my dreams, she was there smiling and gazing at faces, clownish faces that were eager to gobble her down, to consume her body and leave me nothing but dreams, and crumbs of desires. Leaving her empty glass on a table, thirsty for more, thirsty to drink it all, she lifted her head, and looked into my eyes. I was there, motionless, frozen like a statute, like a nonliving; I was there ready to quench her thirst and give her flesh and give her love. In my dreams, nothing is what it seems; beauties may become beasts, and birds may turn into dragons; in my dreams, I see things and feel a lot of things, and I may imagine even an angel without wings; in my dreams, nothing is what it seems; giants may become dwarfs, and god may turn into a demon.
In my dreams, I saw her approaching the marble statute and pulling behind her balls of fire and tempests of desire; in my dreams, nothing is what it seems, love may turn into war, an endless war of passion. She was so near; I could feel her breath caressing my skin, drawing some picture on my cheek, painting a new portrait of me; I was no more the one I used to be; I felt like being someone else; all is a story of becoming. With a kiss, I grew a century older; with a stroke, I grew a millenary older; with love and passion, we grow older and we become like ancient manuscripts, ancient relics that have a lot to tell. She wrote my history, in a dream, with few strokes, a lot of moves, a touch of passion, a number of kisses, and endless fires; she wrote my history with her body lying the length of my body, giving me warmth and unveiling to my eyes hidden treasures. My woman, and I, a woman, were two, two wineglasses, two secrets; I will not tell you more for two mean too much to me; tonight, tomorrow, in two hours, in two days, in two years, or even in two centuries, I will forget, if I can forget, and let, and walk away.
-Faithinlove-
Two ladies, two wineglasses, two eyes gazing at the past, two women, two secrets; I will not tell you more for two mean too much to me; tonight, tomorrow, in two hours, in two days, in two years, or even in two centuries, I will forget, if I can forget, and let, and walk away.
In my dreams, I saw her walking with strangers, and whispering to some guests words I could not hear, words I wish I could hear, words different from all words for they were coming out and dying on her lips, sweet lips, tender lips that remind me of the sweet, tender years of youth, years of madness and liberty. With age, they say we become wiser, a bit more intricate, and trickier; we become; we turn out to be, and all is but a story of becoming, a transformation towards the best maybe, towards the worst for sure. With age, we learn, and feel eager to learn and find out; and with age, we know that we do not know, and that we need to know, and that we know to find out that we do not know. With age, we comprehend that life is but a game, and we understand the “open-endedness”, the “no-story”, the “no-history”; with age, we become like an old tree, an aging olive tree standing amidst the natural and the artificial, longing for the sweet, furious wind, the wind that bring the new and clears the dust.
In my dreams, I saw her, a wineglass in a hand, a cigarette in the other; she was walking and treading on my desires and fantasies, puffing me with smoke, releasing herself from my demons, and sending demons to dwell in me. In my dreams, she was there smiling and gazing at faces, clownish faces that were eager to gobble her down, to consume her body and leave me nothing but dreams, and crumbs of desires. Leaving her empty glass on a table, thirsty for more, thirsty to drink it all, she lifted her head, and looked into my eyes. I was there, motionless, frozen like a statute, like a nonliving; I was there ready to quench her thirst and give her flesh and give her love. In my dreams, nothing is what it seems; beauties may become beasts, and birds may turn into dragons; in my dreams, I see things and feel a lot of things, and I may imagine even an angel without wings; in my dreams, nothing is what it seems; giants may become dwarfs, and god may turn into a demon.
In my dreams, I saw her approaching the marble statute and pulling behind her balls of fire and tempests of desire; in my dreams, nothing is what it seems, love may turn into war, an endless war of passion. She was so near; I could feel her breath caressing my skin, drawing some picture on my cheek, painting a new portrait of me; I was no more the one I used to be; I felt like being someone else; all is a story of becoming. With a kiss, I grew a century older; with a stroke, I grew a millenary older; with love and passion, we grow older and we become like ancient manuscripts, ancient relics that have a lot to tell. She wrote my history, in a dream, with few strokes, a lot of moves, a touch of passion, a number of kisses, and endless fires; she wrote my history with her body lying the length of my body, giving me warmth and unveiling to my eyes hidden treasures. My woman, and I, a woman, were two, two wineglasses, two secrets; I will not tell you more for two mean too much to me; tonight, tomorrow, in two hours, in two days, in two years, or even in two centuries, I will forget, if I can forget, and let, and walk away.
-Faithinlove-
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